


Life Noir

by copperbadge



Category: White Collar
Genre: Dark Character, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:33:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noir is popularly defined as a genre "in which no one is innocent".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Nick

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Anya for awesome betas! 
> 
> I wouldn't exactly call what happens in this "dubious consent" but the sex is manipulative and does get unexpectedly rough, please be warned.

Nick Halden was sweating, each inhale coming in a short gasp, and he was pretty sure he was going to be incredibly sore tomorrow. He tipped his head back and tried to catch his breath.

Vincent grinned at him and leaned back.

"You okay?" he asked.

"You're gonna give me a heart attack," Nick told him.

"Want me to stop?"

Nick moaned, closing his eyes. "Okay. I give in."

"I warned you it was intense," Vincent reminded him. Nick slitted his eyes open and sighed. Vincent tossed the racket from hand to hand. "You'll think twice next time you sneer at squash, won't you?"

Nick hadn't sneered, exactly. One of the first rules of the con was that you always agreed with your mark. But a fleeting look of dismay must have crossed his face when Vincent mentioned his sport was squash (Neal was a swimmer, Nick a runner -- competitive sports really didn't do it for either of him) and thus a summary challenge had been issued, Halden versus Adler. And, like Mozzie always said, every minute with Vincent was a minute well-invested.

"Yes, sir," Nick exhaled. He pushed away from the wall, trailing out of the warm little room and into the cooler corridor beyond. He lifted his shirt up to wipe his face, and a few women passing by turned to give him flirtatious looks. Nick nodded at them, smiling, and followed Vincent into the locker room.

"The ancient Greeks believed that health of the body signified health of the mind," Vincent said, voice echoing against the tiles as Nick stripped and stepped under the shower spray. The gym was expensive and exclusive, a perk of working for Adler's corporation; most people used it in the morning or evening, and at three in the afternoon they were the only two men in the locker room. "What do you think?"

Neal wasn't accustomed to people talking to him while he bathed, but Vincent liked to talk everywhere and anywhere, at least to Nick.

"I think Plato wasn't much of a realist," Nick answered. "Aeschylus was okay."

Vincent laughed. "Nick Halden's Greek history. Away with Plato! Enjoy your dramatic tragedy."

"What can I say? I'm a romantic," Nick replied, reaching out to turn off the shower. As he passed Vincent, the other man turned and stretched out a hand; he ran his fingers down Nick's skin, chest to flank, and Nick paused, startled.

"They would have sculpted you," Vincent said softly. He gave Nick a small, amused smile, and turned back to his shower. Nick hesitated for the briefest moment and then went back to his locker, drying himself and dressing slowly.

It wouldn't do any good to bolt, and anyway what was he bolting from? There hadn't been anything essentially inappropriate in the touch, and he was learning Vincent's quirks slowly. Maybe he just admired a well-sculpted body, and Nick's was certainly that.

Vincent didn't seem to find anything wrong with what he'd done. He emerged from the shower whistling, dressed without modesty, and clapped Nick on the shoulder. "Early dinner? Let's have some steak."

***

"I've been thinking, Nick," Vincent said to him, a few days later. "It's hard to find someone who can keep up with me."

"I do my best, Mr. Adler," Nick answered with a smile.

"Vincent," Vincent corrected. "Your best is pretty good. How'd you like to be my squash partner?"

Nick very carefully did not recoil in horror. "I think you want someone to defeat every week."

"Well, maybe. But I'll know if you're not trying. Come on, Nick! It'll be good for you. I even promise not to fire you if you win."

It could have been worse. It could have been golf.

"It would be my pleasure. Vincent," Nick added, and Vincent laughed.

"Good answer," he said.

It became their ritual: every Tuesday and Friday, unless there was some urgent meeting Vincent had to attend, they cut out early and went down to the gym, where Nick got his ass handed to him by a guy twenty years older than he was. It was, in its own way, stimulating -- Neal spent so much time _thinking_ , under Nick's mask, and there wasn't any time to think on the squash court, not like in swimming or running. It was purely physical.

They usually showered off together, but Vincent never touched him again, unless it was to throw a towel at him or clap him on the shoulder in camaraderie. Neal began to suspect Vincent was lonely.

After, they went to dinner together, which was more time invested, more trust built. Besides, Vincent introduced him to amazing food -- rare steak, foie gras, molecular gastronomy in its infancy at the time, pasta so light it almost melted on the tongue. Both Neal and Nick were sensualists, and he reveled in this whole new world he'd barely suspected existed.

Nick always let Vincent pay.

***

The fourth or fifth week in, on a Tuesday, Nick dove for the ball and swung at the wrong moment -- landed hard on his shoulder, and felt something in the joint crackle unpleasantly. He'd broken bones before and it wasn't that -- the pain wasn't bad enough to be a dislocation, either, but it felt like it might be a sprain. Mercifully, Vincent offered him a hand up and said, "I think that'll do for today, what do you think?"

Nick nodded, rubbing his shoulder.

"You should put some ice on that," Vincent added. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's not serious," Nick answered with a smile pulled up from somewhere, following him into the locker room. Vincent went straight to the shower; Nick eased his shirt off, then stripped the rest of the way and ducked under the water barely long enough to sluice the sweat away. He was studying the slowly purpling bruise on his shoulder in the mirror by the time Vincent walked out. His boss peered at him in their reflection, made a sympathetic face, and reached under the counter where a small, shiny chrome mini-freezer sat.

"RICE," he said, producing a freezer pack from its depths and wrapping it in a towel, pressing it to Nick's shoulder. "Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation. Sit down for a few minutes. I need to make some business calls and then we'll get some dinner, huh?"

Nick nodded and sat on the bench in front of his locker, while Vincent dressed and stepped to the far end of the room, phone to his ear. The ice felt good, and then it burned, and then everything went blissfully numb.

"Here," Vincent's voice was in his ear, and Nick startled, looking up. Vincent had a cup of water and two pills in his hand. "Anti-inflammatories."

"Thanks," Nick said, taking the pills, sipping eagerly at the fresh, cool water in the cup.

"Easy, kid," Vincent said, laughing. "You still up for dinner, or you want to head home?"

He didn't want to seem weak -- well, any weaker than he already had -- and those dinners were important. They were the only time he could be sure of Vincent's undivided attention. They talked about philosophy, art, history, literature, lots and lots of finance. Vincent always started them the same way, too, which Nick liked: when they sat down, Vincent said, "You have until the salad course," the way he had when Nick had ambushed him at the charity dinner.

"No, I'm good," he said. "I'll skip the wine, maybe."

"That's the spirit," Vincent told him.

***

His shoulder felt much better by the time they sat down at Vincent's table in the little cafe near the gym. His tongue felt thick as he ordered, but it wasn't until he dropped his fork that Nick decided something might be wrong.

"Don't worry about it," Vincent said, looking amused. "I slipped you a Vicodin with the anti-inflammatory."

Nick blinked at him, not sure what to say.

"Relax. You're a little stoned, that's all. Eat slowly," Vincent recommended. It seemed like a good idea. "Let me do the talking, okay?"

Nick obediently sat and mostly listened while Vincent talked about -- something, he never remembered what, later. It was all very enjoyable, he did remember that. He had a faintly blurry memory of following Vincent outside and being put in a cab, climbing the stairs to his apartment and falling asleep face-down on the sofa.

He woke around five in the morning with a groan and a spasm. His shoulder ached and felt two sizes bigger than it should be, though when he studied it in the mirror there was hardly any swelling. Mozzie showed up at six, fresh from a night doing something mysterious and iniquitous, clucked over him like a mother hen, helped him ice the shoulder and then wrap it in a sports bandage, and sent him off to work with a bottle of anti-inflammatories in his briefcase.

The pills made the pain bearable, at least, until just past ten when he shifted injudiciously and part of the bandage slipped, cutting into the bruise and sending an arc of pain through the right side of his body. He couldn't help the twitch, or the grunt of pain that got past him. Kate, sitting at her desk across from his, looked up sharply.

"Nick?" she asked, worried. "Nick, are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine," he managed, clenching the edge of his desk with his left hand, trying to rotate the bandage off the bruise. "Sprained my shoulder yesterday, it's misbehaving."

"You want me to call someone?" she asked, getting up from her desk and hurrying over to his. He hissed through his teeth.

"No, it's the bandage -- I just need to rewrap it," he said. "I'll go to the bathroom, fix it there."

"I'll call Mr. Adler -- "

"No! I'm okay," he said, trying to smile and reassure her.

"Wow, that's not a good look on you," she told him. "Are you sure you don't want paramedics?"

"For a sprain?" he asked dismissively, standing up. "I'm okay. I'll be back in ten, fifteen tops. Seriously, Kate," he added, squeezing her hand. "I'm fine. Don't tell Adler, it's nothing."

"Are you two making mischief out here?" Vincent asked, leaning his head out of his office. "Slackers can be replaced, you -- Nick?"

Kate turned to Vincent, hapless. "He says it's his shoulder."

"Ah, the squash game," Vincent said, coming forward. He put his hands on Kate's arms, physically moving her aside, and began undoing Nick's tie right there in the office lobby. "Did you ice it again this morning?"

"And wrapped it, but the bandage slipped," Nick gasped. "I just need to wrap it again."

"Masochism is incredibly unattractive," Vincent told him. "And shoulders are hard to wrap. Kate, hold my calls until I get back."

Nick found himself manhandled into the men's room, his shirt unbuttoned and peeled off. Vincent sucked air through his teeth thoughtfully at the twisted, misplaced bandage, then pulled the end free and unwrapped it. The biting pain subsided into a dull ache, and Nick leaned against the sink in relief.

"Swelling's pretty minimal, doesn't look dislocated," Vincent said, running light fingers over the bruising. "You should have taken the day."

"Live to work," Nick told him with a grin that even he knew looked fake.

"You can work from home, you have a computer," Vincent scolded, deftly re-wrapping his upper arm, angling the bandage across his chest and then back again. "However, now you're going to take the day, ice that, take a lot of painkillers and watch some daytime television. No, Nick," he added, when Nick opened his mouth to protest. "You have someone who can come over and keep an eye on you?"

"Yeah, I have a friend I can call -- but it's really not necessary -- "

"Are you going to call said friend?" Vincent asked. Nick's mouth worked as he tried to figure out what to say. Vincent rested a hand on his chest, an almost proprietary gesture, and the hard look in his eyes softened a little.

"You trust me, Nick?" he asked softly.

"Of course I do, but -- "

"Good." Vincent picked up his shirt and began sliding the sleeves up his arms. "Then shut up and do as I tell you."

Nick, feeling worried and humiliated that his boss had to rescue him, let Vincent button his shirt, then followed him back to the lobby.

"Kate," Vincent called.

"Is he okay?" Kate asked, half-rising.

"He'll be fine. Cancel my ten o'clock and email my ten-forty-five to call my cell, not my office line. Nick, my hand to God, if you say anything I'll fire you," he added without even turning around. "Have the car service bring my car to the freight dock."

It was a small mercy that they took the freight elevator, not the regular one, and Nick didn't have to be marched out the front door of the building. They rode in silence until Nick realized they weren't going to either a clinic or his apartment, and then he turned imploringly to Vincent.

"Seriously, I _will_ fire you," Vincent said. Nick kept quiet. "I have a household staff of twelve who are patently unbribable and don't have nearly enough to do. So given you're in pain and that's making you irrational, I'm going to put you in a guest room and make them make you look after yourself. I feel responsible, after all."

Vincent's guest room had the most comfortable chair Neal had ever experienced, or at least it felt that way after he had another dose of Vicodin forced on him. He sat quietly, shirtless, an ice pack on his shoulder, and listened with languid half-interest as Vincent held his ten-forty-five conference call in the guest room.

"Okay, that's done with," Vincent said finally. "Feeling happy?"

Nick nodded.

"Good. I'm heading back to the office. I'll have Kate put aside anything that's high-priority from your assignments, and we can go over them at dinner, when you're feeling better."

To Neal's shock, Vincent bent and kissed his forehead, ruffling his hair. "Rest. I can't have my best brain zonked on opiates for more than a day or two."

***

Between the ice and the drugs, Nick felt much better by the time one of the staff informed him that Mr. Adler had requested his presence at dinner. The Vicodin had worn off, but his shoulder was back to the dull ache of the day before, and he was able to get his own shirt on, make himself reasonably presentable, and get down the stairs to the dining room without incident.

"There he is," Vincent said, already seated at an exquisite antique dining table -- 17th century, Neal decided, to judge from the acanthus carvings in the legs. "Feeling better?"

"Thank you," Nick said as a butler, an actual butler, pulled out his chair for him. "I am."

"Good," Vincent said. "I've been looking through the files Kate thought were your most vital, and they seem like they're in good shape. Let's talk a little bit about the private equity proposal you've been working on."

After dinner, Vincent took him to the library, poured him a very small glass of brandy, and gestured him over to the windows that looked out onto the street.

"I like to think I'm a pretty hands-on boss," he said, as Nick leaned against the bookshelf below the window, wondering what Vincent saw when he watched people pass outside. Neal saw rank on rank of marks, some easier than others, none more difficult than the man in front of him. "Not that I'd do this for just any employee, but if I can do this for you, why not?"

He half-turned to Nick, grinning. "Even if you're not comfortable accepting it."

"It's not that at all," Nick replied, studying his brandy. "I'm grateful, and it did help."

"But..."

"Well, it's not my finest hour," Nick said. "You're right, I should have taken the day. It would have been a lot less embarrassing."

"I admire your work ethic. You're young, you've already had to push to get what you want -- I get it. You need to learn to pace yourself, that's all. Walk before you run."

"Look before I leap?" Nick suggested. Vincent laughed.

"That too," he agreed, turning away from the window completely and pushing a button to draw the curtains across the tall windows. "Nick...you're going to be amazing someday. I hope I'm there to see the things you'll do in the next ten, twenty years. But right now, let me teach you how to get there."

Nick took a quick sip of his brandy, nodding. "I'd like that."

Vincent smiled. "I wonder what you'd like."

Nick looked up at him, confused.

Vincent set his brandy down, moving a step closer, close enough that Nick could feel his body heat, smell the mixture of dust and ink that came from working in the office all day.

"You could be more than just my acquisitions guy, my right hand," he said in a low voice. "I wonder if you'd like that? No strings, no commitments. Not a relationship. Just...more," he added, running a finger down Nick's cheek when he didn't flinch away from his touch. "A mentorship, if you like."

"The way the Greeks did," Nick said. Neal's head was whirring, turning over his options, trying to decide if this was an amazing opportunity or the worst idea ever.

"Exactly that way," Vincent turned his hand, tracing Nick's lower lip with his knuckles. "I told you they'd have sculpted you. You remember that?"

Nick nodded, eyes wide.

"It's been a long day. You don't need to decide now. But," he added, stepping back, "this is just between us. Because if you tell anyone, I'll make sure you're completely unemployable. That's not a threat, just a little insurance. You understand?"

Nick didn't answer; instead he pushed himself away from the bookshelf under the window, his arm twinging, and leaned in to kiss Vincent on the lips. It wasn't especially passionate, too much hesitance on Nick's part, but it was a clear statement of intent.

"You are _marvelous_ ," Vincent observed, when Nick leaned back. "You've never kissed a man before, have you?"

"No, Vincent," Nick murmured.

"Ever wanted to?"

Neal felt a blush rise in his cheeks. Vincent laughed.

"You're not in a very good condition to do much tonight," he said, hovering his hand over Nick's shoulder. "I didn't actually mean to seduce you when you're not fully in the game. But maybe that's just as well. Come here," he said, taking Nick by the arm and pulling him unresisting towards one of the brocaded sofas under the library's glass lamps. He dropped into the sofa with careless grace and then pulled Nick forward, until Nick understood what he wanted and straddled his lap, leaning in for another kiss.

"Just like this, for a while," Vincent said, coaxing, gentle.

Nick wasn't sure how long they stayed there, and it didn't really seem to matter. Vincent held him steady and let him do essentially what he wanted, at least in terms of kissing. Neal would be lying if he said he hadn't felt an attraction to the most powerful man he'd ever met, hadn't felt that there was something in Vincent he wanted to unlock that had nothing to do with bank passwords and cons. It was good, kissing like that -- arousing -- but Vincent kept a steady hand on his hip, which prevented him from moving closer, even as he traced hands over Nick's ribs, fingers exploring each muscle tantalizingly. Nick wanted to bury his face in Vincent's hair and rub up against him, maybe until he came --

And then there was a rap at the door, and the butler entered before either of them could respond. Nick looked up, startled. Vincent's shirt was open and half-off his shoulders, and Nick's was gone entirely, a crumpled heap on the floor.

The butler's expression didn't even flicker.

"Mr. Halden's ice," he said, setting down a tray with an ice pack, a little medication cup, and two coffee cups. "And your coffee, Mr. Adler."

"Thank you, that'll be all," Vincent said, and the butler withdrew. Nick looked after him, worried. "Like I said," Vincent told him reassuringly. "Discreet and unbribable. He doesn't care if he saw us, and you shouldn't either. It's not his business to care, or judge."

He did, however, give Nick a gentle push off his lap, rising unconcernedly to collect a cup of coffee off the tray and rest the ice pack on Nick's shoulder. He offered Nick the medication: one red-and-yellow capsule, one round white tablet.

"Meds," Vincent said, passing him the other cup of coffee. "The NSAID's required. The Vicodin's optional. You'll stay in the guest room tonight, we'll see how you feel in the morning."

Nick looked at the cup, then tossed both pills back and washed them down with coffee. Vincent seemed approving.

"And to bed with you," he added, passing Nick his shirt. Nick began putting it on slowly, trying to sort out the various stimuli of the evening. "Problem? Second thoughts?"

"You have a girlfriend," Nick said.

"And she still looks better than you in a cocktail dress, but I'm sure you've heard the phrase 'of convenience' before?" Vincent said, his tension easing a little. "I need a regular date for various functions, she likes to go to those functions. My extracurriculars are not her concern, and hers aren't mine. Besides, Kate has a boyfriend, and that doesn't seem to bother you."

Nick carefully didn't look at him.

"If you want to chase my assistant, be my guest, and I wish you luck," Vincent said. He swept Nick with his eyes, like there wasn't anywhere on his body Vincent didn't want to touch. "I don't see the need for _relationships_ , Nick. That extends to you as well. When I said no strings, I meant it."

Nick nodded. Vincent cupped his face, a little forcefully, and kissed him.

"Goodnight, Nicholas," he said, and gave him a gentle shove towards the door.

Neal went upstairs, to the guest bedroom he'd been in earlier, and found a pair of blue linen pajamas sitting on the bed. They smelled, very faintly, like Vincent. He put them on and crawled between the covers, confusion and exhaustion and the drugs conspiring to put him under before he could even process everything that had just happened.

***

The next morning, a maid woke Nick at seven and brought him breakfast and a note from Vincent: he was instructed to go home so he could change, then meet Vincent for his nine-thirty with the Wells Fargo people at their offices.

When Neal walked into his apartment, Mozzie was waiting, arms crossed.

"Do you have any idea how long it took me to figure out where you went when you didn't come home last night?" he demanded, as Neal rubbed his face in anticipatory misery. "Two hours! Hacking into the phone company to trace your cellphone's GPS isn't easy, you know! I thought I was going to have to start..." he shuddered, "... _calling_ hospitals."

"I'm sorry, Mozzie," Neal said. "I should have called."

"What the hell happened, man?"

"Long story," Neal told him, digging a fresh suit and shirt out of his closet. "I can't stay for long, Vincent wants me back at nine-thirty."

"You spent the night at his house, Neal!"

"You should be happy. Quality time, right?" Neal asked, looping a tie around his neck and buckling his belt.

"Outside of work, quality time means you have to make sure he doesn't catch on to the fact that you're not who you say you are," Mozzie answered.

"Relax, I got it covered." At Mozzie's skeptical look. Neal sighed. "My shoulder started acting up. He sent me to his place because he didn't trust me to look after myself unsupervised. We talked, we went over some paperwork, had dinner, and then he let me crash in his guestroom. Hey, have you seen his place? It's amazing."

"Floorplans," Mozzie said dismissively. "So that's all. Out of the goodness of his heart...?"

"Hey, I'm his brain trust, what can I say?" Neal asked. "Look, I'm sorry I forgot to tell you but I wasn't feeling so hot. Won't happen again."

Neal felt a little guilty not telling him everything, but he really didn't have time for one of Mozzie's apoplectic lectures. Moz would assume he was falling for their mark; maybe he was, just a little, but it wasn't going to stop him from getting that money. Vincent had plenty of money already, so it wasn't like they were going to put him out on the street with this scam. Why not have some fun in the meantime?

When he presented himself at the meeting later that morning, smartly dressed and dutifully obedient, Vincent leaned over and murmured, "How's the shoulder?"

"Better," Nick answered in a low voice.

"Fine. Today's a busy day, but only for me. After this you can head back and work on your assignments. Dinner tomorrow? I think we can skip the squash."

Nick laughed, low, just loud enough for Vincent to hear. "I'd like that."

After the meeting, while Vincent was chatting with one of the portfolio managers, Nick found himself cornered by the branch CFO.

"So you're Vincent's new shark," she said, with an insincere grin. "You screwed up a major merger two weeks ago when you stepped in and tattled on us."

"I'm pretty sure you screwed it up by not telling him you were buying out his competition as well," Nick replied. He remembered that one; Vincent was almost ready to sign the papers when Nick produced evidence the bank was going for a monopoly. Mozzie had weaseled it out somehow.

"That deal wasn't going to go through until the day after he signed the papers."

"Good thing I caught it then, isn't it?" Nick said. "Look, your investors can sulk, or we can all move forward. Don't blame me for doing my job. He pays me. You don't."

"That could change," she said. "What would it take to pry your leash out of Vincent's hands?"

"Sorry," he said with a smile. "I'm not for sale."

"Nick!" Vincent called across the room, summoning him with a wave of his hand.

"Excuse me," Nick said, gave her a slight nod, and went to follow Vincent out the door.

Once he got back to the office, he spent the day alternating between working quietly on his assignments and goofing around with Kate, still trying to impress her. It was true that he didn't really care that she had a boyfriend, because he was reasonably confident in his abilities as a thief, and stealing Kate was just a matter of skill and time. He'd worried about Vincent's girlfriend because she had the power to really mess his life up if she wanted; Kate's boyfriend didn't have the intellect to see what Nick was doing, let alone do anything about it.

Vincent showed up at the office that afternoon with two new research projects for Nick, plus a conspiratorial grin. Neal found himself whistling as he left work.

***

Neal was very good at compartmentalizing, most of the time, and working for Vincent had honed his skills. Nick wasn't exactly calm about having dinner with him on Friday, because he was pretty sure dinner wasn't all Vincent had in mind. But he could segment off his nervousness, lock it away in a corner of his mind, and go about his work normally, that Friday.

"You seem peppy," Kate observed, as Nick returned from a coffee run, presenting her with her latte. "Big plans for the weekend?"

"Maybe. I don't know yet," Nick answered, leaning on her desk. "What about you?"

"Nah. Staying in," she said. "What do you mean, you don't know yet?"

Nick shrugged. "I'm waiting on a few investments to pay out," he said with a grin. "I'll let you know how it goes."

"Cryptic yet alluring," she remarked, giving him a shove. "Okay, now butt out, I have proofing to do."

"Your wish," he told her, bowing as he backed away.

Vincent sent Kate home a little early. She went happily -- "I can catch the early movie!" -- and Nick, in the old tradition, hated to see her leave, but he loved to watch her go. Vincent caught his glance and gave him a knowing look.

"Tidy up what you're working on," he said. "I have one more call and then we'll take off."

Vincent took him to a French fusion place, probably because he knew it was one of Nick's favorites -- the food was always so _different_. Neal spoke French pretty well, self-taught but grammatically impeccable, and he'd been surprised that Vincent knew none at all. It seemed like a language a poised, wealthy, fashionable man would speak. (Kate said she'd heard him speaking what sounded like German on the phone, once.) It became a game with them, Nick translating the menu and Vincent deciding whether he was translating truthfully or not.

They lingered over dinner, enjoying the quiet restaurant and the food. Nick didn't want it to seem like he was reluctant, but he didn't want to be overeager, either. Vincent, chewing on a bite of sake-poached pear, studied him across the table.

"Are you nervous, Nick?" he asked.

"No," Nick said with a smile. "I trust you."

"That's very good, but a little bit of a lie. Oh, I have no doubt you trust me," he added, when Nick opened his mouth to protest. "But I think you are nervous. Which is to be expected; it's a new experience. Whatever your past, Nick, I think it's undeniable that working for me has opened new vistas to you, things you could hardly have imagined."

Nick sipped his wine. "That's why I came to work for you."

"Courage does not imply fearlessness, I know," Vincent continued. "But you like risk, don't you? Approaching me the way you did was risky. Some of your analysis work in the less...well, what do I call it -- less interesting asset classes -- favors risk somewhat strongly. If the thing itself is boring, then the handling of the thing should be made more interesting, right? That Raphael you like so much is _pretty_ , but it's much more interesting if you know the symbolism, if you know how it was created."

"There's not a lot of risk in art history," Nick pointed out.

"No, but there is in art theft."

"Sorry?" Neal asked, feigning confusion.

"To most thieves, art is a capital asset. It's just there to make money. Not a lot of money, because it's hard to sell on the black market. I should know -- some of my purchases have been in the grey area, a little. Anyway, they don't understand its worth. It's boring to them, but the risk to get it is a little fun, anyway. Why else do we work? To make enough money to indulge our pleasures. You and I have expensive pleasures, so we need a lot of money, and that requires a lot of risk."

Neal relaxed back into Nick, less vigilant now that it appeared Vincent was being theoretical, not baiting him.

"This is a risk, but you've risked more for less before. It's fine to be nervous. One reason I gave you two days to consider this was to see how you'd react in the office -- just how big a risk _you_ were. You trust me, that's fine; do you trust yourself?"

Nick swallowed.

"I suppose we'll see," Vincent said with a smile, and signaled for the check.

***

Vincent's driver took them back to his brownstone, and Vincent put his hand in the small of Nick's back as he guided him inside, through the foyer and up the stairs. They passed the guest room where Nick had stayed, and Vincent keyed a code into a door down another hallway, pushing it open when it beeped.

"My private room," he said. "You'll have to forgive a little disarray. The staff don't come in here very often. It's where I keep my secrets."

Nick smiled and let himself be drawn inside.

The room was dim, not big but spacious, with surprisingly simple furniture. Neal had been in a lot of rich people's houses, usually in the dead of night, and he knew the wealthy tended to cram countries and eras together carelessly, as long as everything looked like it cost a lot of money. He should have known Vincent better.

The bed, the chest at the foot of it, the wardrobe and chest of drawers, the writing desk and chairs were all in unity -- German, Early Biedermeier, clean lines and delicate elegance. Vincent took off his suit jacket and tossed it carelessly across the back of a chair that couldn't have been made after 1850.

He turned back and smiled at Nick, offering one of his wrists. Nick glanced down and automatically raised his hands, unfastening the plain square cuff link, then the other one when Vincent held it up. He undid Vincent's tie without asking or having to be asked, absently laying the cuff links on the dresser, among cologne bottles and trinkets, a stand with a pocket-watch hanging from it, a small case with a tie-clip lying on top.

He considered going for the buttons on his shirt, but instead he found himself grasping Vincent's wrists, turning them over so his hands were palm-up, sliding his own hands up under the sleeves to explore the muscles along his arms, learning by touch in a way he hadn't thought to, two nights before. He pressed his thumb into the soft skin at the elbow, and Vincent leaned forward, kissing him, distracting him.

"Trust me," Vincent said around the kiss, and Nick felt him pull his arms away, raise them and ease Nick's jacket off his shoulders.

"I do trust you," Nick replied, cupping one hand behind Vincent's head, the other resting on the side of his throat. His shoulder twinged, but he ignored it. Vincent began unbuttoning his shirt.

Undressing was awkward and confusing, mainly because neither of them seemed to want to stop kissing and every time Nick even tried, Vincent caught him again and pulled him close. His shirt was still around his shoulders, though the rest of his clothing was in a heap of shoes and belt and fabric on the floor, when Vincent -- naked, with his usual careless lack of modesty -- finally let him go.

"Shoulder okay?" he asked, pushing the shirt back, inspecting the shoulder as his shirt fell to the floor. The way he looked at the bandage still wrapped around it made Nick feel suddenly vulnerable, made him feel like Neal was rising to the surface. "Leave it on?"

Nick nodded, and Vincent kissed the join where shoulder met throat, breath warm on his skin. He leaned back and touched Nick again, the way he had that first time -- down the side of his chest, over his hip and across his thigh.

"Your body is a work of art," he said, like an interested appraiser. Nick smiled.

"Here I thought you wanted me for my brain," he said.

"I hired you for your brain," Vincent murmured absently. "This...is altogether different from that. Perfection in every line. My newest sculpture," he added, smiling with pleasure at Nick, meeting his eyes again. "Does it unsettle you? Some people aren't used to being admired."

"Not anymore," Nick said.

"Good," Vincent replied. His knuckles brushed Nick's cock, already hard, and Nick sucked in a breath. Vincent repeated the motion, then ran his fingers along the warm skin, like he was exploring it.

"Perfect proportion," he said, without looking at it -- holding Nick's gaze. "Vanity is underrated, when you have reason to be vain."

Nick swayed into him, rubbing his cheek along the late-day stubble of Vincent's jaw. "Should I compliment you?" he asked in Vincent's ear. "Flatter you?"

"Have I ever wanted flattery from you, Nick?" Vincent asked.

"No. I don't think you have."

"I have power, which is better." Vincent's fingers were still stroking up and down his cock. Nick's hips twitched forward, his left arm rising to wrap around Vincent's shoulders, restricted right arm slung around his waist.

"That's it," Vincent said, petting him, but then he pulled away -- stopped touching, gently disengaged Nick's arms from his body. He backed up, tugging on Nick's wrist to bring him along, and settled on the edge of the bed. "Kneel."

For a fraction of a second, Nick thought he'd said _Neal_ , but the look in Vincent's eyes was expectant, not vindictive. And his legs were spread wide, erection curving dark against his skin.

Nick knelt, slowly, and rested his cheek on Vincent's thigh. "I've never -- "

"I know," Vincent said. "No time like the present to learn, though, is there?"

Nick laughed, kissed his skin. "You have high expectations."

"For you? Always." He felt Vincent's hand in his hair, reassuring. "Don't tell me you've never _had_ one, Nick. Reverse-engineer it. You're good at that."

Vincent's hand tightened enough to hurt, tugging his head forward. Nick struggled for a second but as soon as he stopped fighting, he found himself guided -- into what Vincent wanted, into the right angle, the right rhythm. He'd never done this; men were more perilous than women, more difficult, so he'd never sought it out. The opportunity had never really presented itself on its own.

But he'd wanted to. Wondered what it was like, how it felt, and Vincent seemed aware of that. His voice was a low rumble, soothing and encouraging, occasionally amused, his hand now cupping Nick's head instead of controlling it. He wasn't sure how long it had been or how close Vincent was when he was tugged back again and then up.

"Come on, come up," Vincent said, and Nick knelt up to kiss him, breathless, his whole body sensitive to touch.

"How'd I do?" Nick asked, grinning, when Vincent let him go.

"Sloppy," Vincent said, grinning back. "I'll expect more diligence next time."

"Yes, sir," Nick teased, but a spark of something crossed Vincent's face. Ah, so that was what his powerful boss wanted, and why Nick was so appealing. Someone to do as he was told.

Vincent tugged him down onto the bed and then turned, rolling so that Neal lay on his back, looking up at him.

"Well, boss?" he asked. Vincent looked momentarily startled, then he laughed.

"You're a unique man, Nick," he decided, and grasped one of Nick's thighs, pulling it up against his hip. It brought their bodies into sharp contact, the rub of Vincent's erection against his own. Nick arched, groaning.

He'd seen enough porn in his life to know where this was going, but Vincent didn't seem in any hurry to get there. Nick, being honest, wasn't either -- he liked this, the pressure of Vincent's body, the rough rub of skin-on-skin, the sound of their breath. Vincent fucked like he did everything, elegant and controlled, but when Nick slid his good arm around and pulled him up a little, adjusting the way they fit together --

"Oh _fuck_ , you bastard," Vincent said, into the skin of Neal's neck. "You like that, Nick? You'd like more?"

The profanity was unexpected, but more unexpected was Vincent's body uncoiling from him, Vincent bucking his hips against him as he pushed himself up, both hands on Nick's chest. The pressure made it difficult to breathe for a moment, and the vindictive pleasure in Vincent's eyes made him afraid. Panic shot down his spine and he almost tried to throw Vincent off him -- but the shock of the sudden assault made him buck one more time and then he was coming, helpless and nearly breathless. It felt like it went on forever. It felt like he was going to pass out.

When he opened his eyes again, the pressure was gone from his chest. Vincent's arms were braced on either side of his shoulders, head bowed, breathing heavy. His come was all over Nick's stomach. Nick brushed his fingers through Vincent's hair and kissed him, warmth flooding him.

"Got there a little early," Nick said, making a regretful face. Vincent kissed his temple, tongue flicking out to taste his skin.

"Who says?" Vincent asked, tumbling into the blankets next to him. Nick turned his head, frowning. "Why do you think I did that? I came too. We have all the time in the world to teach you the gentle art of sodomy, Nick. Tonight I just wanted to have some fun."

"And?"

"You, my boy, are very fun indeed," Vincent confirmed. "Happy now you've had your pettings?"

"Yes, Mr. Adler," Nick told him. Vincent laughed. "You want anything? Glass of water, the Carlson Holdings file...?"

"Whelp," he said, resting his arms behind his head, a faint smile on his face. "There are tissues in the drawer."

Nick leaned up, careful of his shoulder, and opened the drawer, cleaning himself up with less care than he could have. There were a few white streaks on Vincent's stomach; daringly, Nick leaned over and licked him clean, pleased when one of Vincent's hands came down to rest on his head.

"That's not sanitary, you know," Vincent said.

"I trust you," Nick answered.

"Hm," Vincent grunted, thoughtfully. "There's something to be said for blind faith. Another risk you seem willing to take."

Neal cautiously slid upward, under the curve of Vincent's arm, and rested his head on his shoulder, nuzzling a little into his skin. Vincent seemed content to let him.


	2. Part II: Vincent

Vincent kept his most precious things in his bedroom, behind the keypad-lock, where the maid only cleaned once a month and never while he wasn't there.

The desk and dresser had belonged to his family in Germany; the Adlers had been wealthy before the fall of the Reich. His father had come to America with nothing, but Vincent now had everything -- nearly, anyway. He'd gone to Switzerland and bought the pieces from the family his grandfather had sold them to, picking up a couple of other pieces in the same style, along the way, and shipped them all back to America while he flew home first-class.

The clothing in the wardrobe, the understated masculine cuff links and the expensive watch, those were things he prized because they marked him as a man of worth and taste. The paperwork in the wall safe was insurance -- the only copy of his birth certificate, the only proof he hadn't been raised as a child of wealth, just as the son of a child of wealth's nanny. A few childhood trinkets in a bottom drawer of the dresser.

And, now, Nick Halden, who was apparently a cuddler.

Vincent had no intrinsic objection to it, and knowing Nick he should have expected it, but it amused him. The boy was becoming known as Adler's shark, viciously perceptive and ruthless in business, somehow always in the know about what was happening in other companies and how it would affect Vincent's work. He never backed down because he never had to back down, and Vincent had seen the cold glare Nick could turn on his enemies. But now his eyes were closed, cheek pressed into Vincent's shoulder, his arm curled on his chest, one leg tangled around Vincent's. Nick was, after all, a romantic when you cut down a few layers.

Of course, if you cut down a few more, Nick wasn't even Nick. His name was Neal Caffrey, Vincent knew that already. He was younger than he said, and as far as Vincent could ascertain he'd never even been to college. But Vincent knew the first rule of the grift was to be the illusion, and if he wanted to maintain the lie that he didn't know who Nick really was, it would be folly to think of him as Neal.

Vincent was terribly fond of his new acquisition. It would be a shame to abandon him in a few months. Perhaps, if he managed it just right, he could bring Neal along.

Well, maybe. Maybe not. Something to think about later.

He ran his fingers lightly over the bandage on Nick's shoulder, and Nick stirred; his eyes opened and he propped himself on his good arm, skin glowing in the dim light. Vincent watched with a sort of anthropological interest as he smiled.

"Not to ask the awkward question," Nick said, while Vincent continued to run his fingers over the bandage thoughtfully, "but do you want me to stay?"

"Have somewhere you need to be?" Vincent asked, amused.

"No! I just...usually bring girls back to my place, so it's not an issue. I get to stay no matter what," Nick said.

"Stay," Vincent said, releasing Nick's shoulder and rolling away, off the bed. He could feel Nick's gaze on him as he walked to the desk and picked up a cut-glass decanter, pouring two helpings of cognac. He sat down on the bed again and Nick sat up to face him, a strange scene: the two of them, crosslegged, drinking and studying each other. "Still nervous?"

"No," Nick said, with a headshake that was almost rueful.

"Amazing what a little catharsis can do," Vincent agreed. "You're familiar with the term _le petit mort_?" he asked, and off Nick's nod, continued, "I've always thought it was more of a rebirth. An invigoration for the mind and body. When done right, of course. And before you worry, yes, we did it properly."

"I was pretty sure we had," Nick said with a dry look. "It's not hard to tell when sex goes wrong."

"Perhaps so, but I can anticipate the anxieties of the inexperienced. My point is that we can be useful to each other. Pleasurable, if you like," he added, seeing Nick's skeptical look over _useful_. "But I want you to remember, even now when all those good chemicals are hitting your brain, this is not a love affair."

"You've made that clear," Nick said. "And I understand it. I get why."

"Good, I'm glad you do," Vincent said. 

***

Vincent never wanted an unwilling partner. Physical domination was too messy, too much work. Persuasion, manipulation, these were things he could do and he did them well. In the long run, they satisfied much more, at any rate.

Nick was an interesting conundrum. Was he attracted, or just conning? Was Vincent manipulating him, or was the boy allowing himself to be manipulated? It fascinated Vincent. Either way, it was best to keep him close, keep an eye on him. The week following their first night together was especially interesting; they had to break their routine, because Nick couldn't play squash with his right arm half-incapacitated. Instead they went to museums, a suggestion of Nick's that Vincent found unusually stimulating. An hour amongst the masters, watching Nick glow with passion over a Mondrian or a bauble from ancient Egypt, was enough to warm Vincent's blood. After, he watched him eat, the way he enjoyed good food, the casual lick of tongue over lip, and sometimes Vincent called for the check before propriety really dictated they ought.

The first time after that first night, they didn't get much further than they had, Nick still slightly skittish and favoring his shoulder. The next time, Vincent pushed him down still half-dressed and pinned him there, biting Nick's lower lip.

"I want you, all of you," he said in Nick's ear, hand cupping Nick's ass, the message unmistakable. "Lie still. Let me show you."

Nick's eyes widened a little anxiously, but he nodded. Vincent kept kissing him, a distraction. It almost worked, until he pressed a slick finger into Nick's ass, and Nick's breath left him in a high, inelegant whine.

"Hurt?" Vincent asked -- he drew his eyebrows together in concern, but really it was more _interesting_ than anything.

Nick swallowed, eyes closed, tipping his head back. "Yeah."

"I can stop," Vincent said, letting a vague threat of failure hang in the air.

"No..." Nick arched and exhaled. "Slower next time, that's all."

"Like this?" Vincent curled his finger sharply. Nick's yelp of surprise turned into a moan after a second. "Do you trust me, Nick?"

"Yes," Nick breathed.

"So trust that if I hurt you, it'll be fast -- and worth it," he said, kissing Nick's forehead, smoothing his hair with the hand not currently penetrating his body.

It did hurt. Vincent could see that. But the pain was fascinating too, watching how Nick mastered it, finding out what exactly caused it. When he finally pressed his cock in -- just a little sooner than he should have -- Nick writhed and bucked at first, until he was used to the burn. It was incredibly stimulating.

"Worth it?" Vincent asked, stilling.

"Yes," Nick moaned, as Vincent started to stroke him. "Christ, yes -- "

"That's my boy," Vincent murmured, and when he finally came it was because Nick had shuddered around him when he thrust a little too hard. He reached up, raking his fingernails down Nick's chest sharply, and Nick screamed and came, too.

Vincent thought it worked pretty well for them.

***

Nick's courtship of Kate continued unabated, despite his new status with Vincent. Why shouldn't it? Vincent had given it his blessing. He understood how the romantic mind worked, even if he wasn't of that disposition himself.

If their relationship was purely about sex, then it didn't _fit_ Nick's romantic ideals, but it didn't intrude on them either. Pitching it as a sort of traditional teachership had been smart, Vincent decided, because that made it obscure and mysterious, and left Nick with somewhere to file the sex that wasn't "we're fucking because we like sex".

And Nick would never have agreed if Vincent had told him Kate was off limits. She ought to be by common decency -- she was a co-worker, in some senses a subordinate, and what Nick was doing could certainly be framed as harassment by any Human Resources agent worth their pay.

It was, on the other hand, a brilliant seduction. Nick certainly knew his audience. Mute adoration wasn't going to work, but it wasn't a bad base to build on. Once he had to work with her, Nick had moved on to gentle flirting, and then -- and this was the brilliant part -- to flirting _as if they were already together_. Assertive, confident, comfortable, and with clear intent, that was his Nick.

Of course, sometimes it was fun to mess with him.

He waited until he was almost positive Nick was laying on the flirt with Kate outside, then popped his head out the door.

"Nick, good, you're not busy," he said, as Nick stood and straightened his sleeves self-consciously. "Come inside."

Out of Kate's view, Nick gave him a dry look as he moved towards the door. Vincent winked, ducking back into his office. He leaned up against his desk and pulled Nick forward when he hesitated, so that Nick stood between his legs and Vincent could kiss him without too much effort.

"I thought we were keeping it professional at work," Nick said, even as he nipped his way down Vincent's throat.

"Ah, not the tie," Vincent tapped his hands gently when Nick went to pull it off. Nick looked up at him. "And we are keeping it professional at work. I mean, we're not doing this in the lobby, are we?"

Nick snickered against his neck. "That'd be unprofessional, all right."

"I think you know what I want, Nick," Vincent said in his ear.

Nick didn't just lean back, he stepped back, throat working nervously. "Here? In your office?"

"Here, in my office," Vincent said, aware that Nick's question wasn't dismayed -- it'd probably been a fantasy of his. Pleasing Vincent here, among the law and finance books and the old-money furniture.

Nick knelt without any further objections or questions, and Vincent spread his thighs a little more as Nick worked his belt open and tugged his fly down. Vincent had requested diligence of Nick, in cocksucking as in all other areas, and Nick was a quick study. He wasn't sure whether Nick had gone to someone to find out how to do this or just watched a lot of porn, but either way the result of Vincent's challenge to Nick's pride was spectacular. Nick licked around the head -- nipped once or twice, very gently -- and then worked his mouth down Vincent's cock, all wet warmth and active tongue. Vincent let his head fall back and hummed his pleasure softly; the walls were thick but he didn't want to take the risk. Nick's hands, while his mouth was busy, rubbed tantalizingly against his thighs. 

"You're lovely like this, on your knees," Vincent told him, stroking a hand through his hair. Nick's eyes closed. He loved to be petted and praised. A hand in Nick's hair was a conduit straight to his libido, most days. "Don't touch yourself," he added, when Nick moaned. "I don't want you coming on the carpet. It's worth more than your yearly salary."

After he'd finished -- Nick swallowed, good boy, and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief from his pocket -- Vincent let Nick get himself off, as long as he did it into the handkerchief. Nick gave him a demure smile, dropped it into Vincent's trash, and kissed him before he left.

"What did Mr. Adler want?" he heard Kate ask.

"Oral report," Nick answered, and Vincent waited until the door closed before he laughed.

***

Vincent had wondered, at first, whether Nick was an undercover Fed, sent in to investigate the company. He'd dismissed early on the idea that Nick was a corporate spy; he wasn't pushy enough, and his manners were too good. That left cop or con, and Vincent didn't think a cop would sleep with the guy he was investigating, or allow himself to be distracted by the admittedly lovely Kate Moreau. No, Neal Caffrey wasn't an alias within an alias -- he was working a long con, and Vincent was intrigued to see what the endgame would be.

Alex Hunter, on the other hand, was a pure thorn in Vincent's side. Before he knew her name, she was already making trouble.

Nick rested his head on Vincent's thigh, huddled up in the blankets of the bed; Vincent had some digital security reports propped on his bent knee, and was trying to make sense of them -- which wasn't easy with Nick gazing up at him, wide blue eyes all his.

"There's something wrong," Nick said.

"That's what I'm trying to find out," Vincent answered, dropping a hand to pet him. "Technology moves so quickly. Ten years ago I was trying to learn how to program my cellphone. Now..." he flipped a few pages, and then flipped back, "I think they want me to read binary or something."

"Can I help?" Nick asked.

"Do you have a degree in computing science?" Vincent replied.

"No, but I play a mean game of Space Invaders."

Vincent laughed. "You're too young to even remember that game."

"What was it you told me? To inspire trust, cultivate an air of agelessness?"

"I didn't mean pretend to be old."

"You can tell me," Nick urged softly. "That's why you keep me around."

Vincent acquiesced, sliding down a little in the bed. "Someone's been digging in my records," he said. "My private database. And the Foundation says they've had some unusual inquiries -- nothing they wanted to mention, of course, until I asked them about it."

Nick snorted.

"My thoughts exactly. Someone's being sly." Vincent sighed. "And we don't need a scandal spooking our investors, so I have to handle this in-house. If I can figure out what _this_ is," he added, frowning at the paperwork. Nick took the top page out of his hands and studied it, head resting on Vincent's wrist.

"Want me to look into it?" he said.

Vincent smiled down at him. "Interested?"

"I like a mystery," Nick said. "Bet you I can have the hacker in your office inside of two weeks."

"I'll take that bet," Vincent said, pleased. He was even more pleased when he lost, and Nick presented him with Alexandra Hunter, neatly trapped in Vincent's office.

***

The day after Kate was supposed to have left for Chicago, Vincent walked into the lobby to find her there, looking abject and afraid, and Nick behind her, practically vibrating with pleasure and excitement.

Ah. So it had happened.

"Go talk to HR, have them put you back on payroll," Vincent told her. He didn't have a very high opinion of Kate's motives for staying in New York, but he was happy enough to have her back -- good admins were hard to come by. She beamed, a smile that admittedly could light the world, and then she turned it on Nick, who looked at her like she _was_ the world. "When you return, check in with me and we'll make sure everything's sorted."

"Yes, Mr. Adler," she murmured, all aglow, and Vincent watched Nick watch her leave.

"To the work of the day, then," Vincent announced, and shooed Nick off to his desk.

When Kate knocked quietly and let herself into his office, Vincent was sitting behind his desk going over quarterly earnings reports, highlighting where they should be modified. He didn't like to do con work at the office but quarterly reports always meant a lot of work for him -- a lot of lying, a lot of faking -- and anyway it wasn't like Kate understood any of it. Nick might, but by the end of the day his to-do list would be in his head, and these documents would be in the shredder, off to be burned after that.

"Sit down," Vincent said with a smile, and rested his elbows on his desk, hands clasped in front of him. "I'm glad to see you, Kate."

"Thanks," she said with a smile. "I know it's sudden and...well, almost flaky, but you know that's not me. Usually."

"No, I've always found you very reliable. I hope this is just one of those..." he waved a hand. "Youthful aberrations. Everyone goes through that kind of thing. I did, when I was your age."

When Vincent was her age, he was running circles around his colleagues at B-school, using startup capital from cons for a little insider trading and shady investing. Well, tuition had to be paid somehow.

"You had to work some things out. I understand," Vincent continued. "Your boyfriend -- "

" -- Ex. Ex-boyfriend," she corrected demurely.

"Do you know why he went to Chicago, Kate?" Vincent asked. She frowned. "He went to Chicago because he couldn't keep up with the pack in New York. We both know it's true."

"Keeping up isn't everything," she said.

"Yeah, Kate, it is. In this business, if you can't keep up, you shouldn't even try. This is a good thing," he added, because her frown was deepening. "I know you and Nick are close. He's _leading_ the pack. In your shoes -- give up the knuckle-dragger for Icarus? I'd do the same thing."

A change came over her face, subtle -- but Vincent was an expert in subtlety. Her eyes hardened, mouth lifting just slightly, tension leaving her jaw.

"I like Nick," she said softly. "I wouldn't have stayed if I didn't like him, if I didn't think I could love him."

"All the better. He likes you, too. I don't think he knows a thing about who you really are, but what does that matter? Blind adoration gets a lot of undeserved bad press."

"I'm not a bad person," Kate insisted.

"No. You're a smart girl. Nick's a smart boy. Your last boy wasn't even on the same playing field as Nick, let alone the same level. But let's not play games, you and I. You take Nick away from the work, you pull him away from me, and you will not win. You can have him soon enough. For now, he belongs to me first, and you second. Do we understand each other?"

"Someday he'll be rich."

"Rich, and all yours. Yes."

She nodded. "I can wait."

"Good. Now, off you go. There's a lot of work to catch up on," he said, and dismissed her.

***

Peter Burke came onto Vincent's radar about a month before one of his bi-annual transfers, and the presence of an FBI agent, even at the fringes, was enough to convince Vincent that the con was over. He could perhaps have kept the scheme running for another year, but he'd prefer not to tempt fate. Besides, the longer he waited to end it, the longer he'd have to stay in hiding before he could start putting out feelers about the music box, about the U-Boat.

Burke was looking into Nick, even if he didn't know either of his names yet. It couldn't be anyone else; Vincent had seen the sketch. Sooner or later, it would probably lead him to Adler Financial Management, and if he started looking into Nick's activities, he'd be led to Vincent's. Too risky. Time to shut up and get out.

Just in case, he did ask his people to compile a file on Burke, checking if there were any opportunities for blackmail should the Fed come sniffing around before Vincent could get out. He thought about having Nick do the research, to see how he'd react, but there was a time for fun and a time for professionalism, and this was the latter.

Burke's financials, as Vincent would expect of an accountant-turned-cop, were squeaky clean. He had a mortgage, a dog, and an apparently loving relationship with his wife. He went jogging, but he didn't have a routine. His subordinates admired him. He and his wife were friendly (but not sleeping) with the neighbors. It was so humdrum it set Vincent's teeth on edge.

He would have been surprised, but he knew in reality most people weren't really wicked. Greedy, perhaps, but only if the situation presented itself. There were millions of men like Peter Burke in the world: upstanding, trustworthy, temptable perhaps but not willing to initiate a bribe or scam -- boring people living boring lives.

"Can't con an honest man," Vincent said to himself, looking down at Burke's picture in the file they'd been compiling on him. Shame, really. He could use a Fed in his pocket. If push came to shove he supposed he could go after the wife. Then again, Burke was a smart guy, sneaky; if he wanted a Fed there were plenty of dumber ones around who would do as they were told with sufficient motivation. Something to think about.

***

Vincent still wasn't entirely sure what Nick was after, but either way he felt it lacked ambition. Nick, he decided, was a craftsman, an artisan, the old world in a young body. Vincent was modernity, mass-production, Henry Ford. Spare and sensible, lacking in romanticism perhaps but stronger for that. After all, why con one man when you could con thousands? He was going to enjoy watching the chaos when he departed for Argentina. This kind of con got you news coverage; you could watch your marks in their defeat. If Nick made off with his money, or his art, what would he get to see? At most, some police tape around Vincent's front door. Where was the fun in that?

It was fun for Vincent, of course, always wondering what questions of Nick's were innocent, and what were designed to elicit information he would need.

"You're quiet tonight," Nick said, propped on an elbow over Vincent. His shoulder was almost completely healed, though he'd been sunbathing in his bandage and had a faint tan line where it had been looped. "I'd ask if you had a long day, but I was there for most of it. Nothing so unusual. Was there?"

Vincent gave him a smile. "Points for perception. And no, nothing unusual."

"In that case I can't be as perceptive as you think."

"No, no," Vincent laughed. "I'm having a pensive moment. Forgive."

"Nothing to forgive," Nick assured him. "Can I help?"

Vincent turned slightly, tilting his head to look at Nick sideways.

"Have you ever worn a bespoke suit?" he asked. "One cut just to fit you. Not that you don't have the body-type suits were designed for," he added, when Nick gave him a puzzled look, "but...it's a shame to see you in something so generic."

"I can get one tailored, if you want," Nick offered. Vincent smiled. He wondered if Nick knew how it sounded, his offering to dress to Vincent's tastes. Even better than allowing Vincent to dress him, though in a different, less vital way.

"No -- I have a tailor I trust," he replied. "He's coming tomorrow to measure me for some new shirts. Clear your calendar -- we'll get you measured."

The next day, Nick practically glowed under all the attention he received. Nelson was a solicitous, conservative, old-money tailor with impeccable taste, and he commented quite professionally on Nick's proportions and posture. Vincent sat at his desk and listened to the happy murmurs with a light heart, pretending to work while Nick, stripped to his underwear behind a screen, was measured and gently prodded and questioned about his fabric tastes and requirements.

Once Nelson had been dismissed, Vincent expected Nick would dress and emerge from behind the screen, but he didn't hear the rustle of clothing, and Nick didn't appear. Vincent considered matters, then let a slow, predatory smile cross his face as he stood and walked to the screen.

On the other side of it, in the little enclosure it formed, Nick was standing in front of the mirror attached firmly to one panel. He was hard in his white cotton briefs.

"Nelson tell you that you were pretty?" Vincent asked, wrapping his arms around Nick from behind, edging the waistband down. "You look like you enjoyed it."

"I thought about boring things until he left," Nick answered, leaning back into him.

"And then?"

"And then I thought about you," Nick said, arching his hips a little to try and get Vincent's hand closer to his dick. "Shame to put this mirror to waste."

Vincent was amused. Two narcissists fucking in front of a mirror held a sort of obscure charm. Still, it was usually more fun to make Nick wait for it, to make him beg for it, even when it hurt.

"If we do that now," he said in Nick's ear, tugging on his briefs, pulling them tight to hear Nick gasp, "Next time you're in here, what will you think about? Nelson can't fit you properly if you're hard the whole time."

Nick whined, turning his head to nuzzle Vincent's jaw.

"Patience, Nick," Vincent whispered, and then let him go. "Get dressed. I have a fundraising dinner for the senator tonight, and I can't be distracted with visions of my boy half-naked in my office."

He smacked Nick on the ass for emphasis, and Nick jerked like he'd been shocked. Interesting. Something to try later, when he didn't have a girlfriend and a senator and a six-course dinner waiting for him.

***

Vincent felt it keenly when Nick finally betrayed him. He'd still been considering telling Neal he'd figured out who he was and offering him a once-in-a-lifetime one-way trip to Argentina. Time was short -- he was leaving that night, following the wire transfer -- but he could have taken Nick out to dinner, shown him the plane, forced him to make a decision on the tarmac. He was willing to bet Neal would choose him. He could have reveled in Neal's surrender of his own game in exchange for Vincent's.

Instead, that afternoon, Nick weaseled the password to Vincent's bank account out of him, and Vincent gave him a dummy password with inward regret. Like the Raphael, like the Degas bronze in his brownstone and half a dozen other beloved works, Vincent was going to have to leave Nick behind.

"I'll give you a call if I find anything," Nick said, as he left the office. "See you on Monday?"

"Monday," Vincent said with a smile. They both knew Monday was a lie.

***

It was eight years before they met in person again, though Vincent had seen surveillance of Neal before that. Eight years turned Neal Caffrey from a clever, big-eyed grifter into a slick smartass with a hard stare. A man, not the boy he'd been when Vincent conned him. Neal had seen Europe, and Vincent would have liked to have talked to him about where he'd been and what he'd been up to. They could have exchanged stories -- not as equals, Neal would never be his equal, Vincent would never let him -- but at least as men. Neal had been in prison, had worked for the FBI, had lost a woman he thought he loved; Vincent was hungry to pick him to little pieces and see how he went together, now that he was so changed.

Time for that later, perhaps, if Neal was a sensible man as well as a smart one. Time for that if Neal would follow the art and Vincent, and forget about Kate.

Vincent hadn't banked on Peter Burke. He should have -- he knew how resourceful the man was, how wise it was to be wary of him. He knew Neal and Burke had a connection, but he was sure it was tenuous, easily broken. Neal had been ready to leave Burke once before, and if he thought it was Burke's fault Kate had died, that would be even more incentive. All Vincent had to do was carefully plant little seeds of doubt that Neal's sense of the real was sound.

He had misjudged their relationship, however. He saw that as soon as he met Burke. They had to be fucking, which was both dismaying and delicious: finally he had found a crack in Burke's facade of respectability, too late to make use of it. It was distasteful, anyway, whether or not it was hypocritical. He was such a middle-class man, with his blue collar morals and his off-the-rack suits. Burke was easy to manipulate, too -- threaten an innocent, or even a not-so-innocent, and Burke would comply with all demands. Neal had once been the belonging of a much superior class of man.

Burke ought to know that.

As they were walking to the car after Neal and Burke had cracked the sub open, Vincent tugged on Burke's bound wrists, pulling him back from the others.

"I thought you'd like to say thank-you," he said in Burke's ear, as they walked.

"Go to hell," Burke answered. Vulgar; typical.

"I don't think you really mean that," Vincent said lightly. "After all, I was his first. I taught him everything he knows. So you see, you really should be grateful."

Burke stopped, turning sidelong as best he could. He tilted his head to look at Vincent, those little bourgeois wheels spinning, and then...incongruously, he laughed.

The others, further down the hallway, stopped to see why. Neal shot them both a worried look.

"Peter?" he called. There was a plaintive note in his voice that Vincent had never heard. It angered him, but he kept it under control.

"It's all right, Neal," Burke called, and then he leaned in close. Vincent let him, unwilling to show fear or fury first.

"I don't have to fuck Neal Caffrey to own him," Burke said softly, in his ear. "When I call, he comes to me of his own free will. And under his own name. Unless you can say the same, you weren't really anything to him. He just let you play for a little while."

Vincent tugged sharply on Burke's restraints. The other man grunted, jerking with the pull, and stumbled when Vincent shoved him forward, but the smile didn't leave his face.

"Be seeing you, Adler," he called, as one of Vincent's men came back to drag him down the hallway.

"I highly doubt that," Vincent called. But he saw Neal bend towards Burke as they were led out of the corridor, and the victory of the last word turned hollow and faded.


End file.
